#AmericanWriters
Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
257 Delight is as the flight— Or in the Ratio of it, As the Schools would say— The Rainbow’s way—
The words the happy say Are paltry melody But those the silent feel Are beautiful—
I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died
75 She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn
XXV Wild nights—Wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury!
Like trains of cars on tracks of p… I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry Withstands until the sweet assault
411 The Color of the Grave is Green— The Outer Grave—I mean— You would not know it from the Fi… Except it own a Stone—
152 The Sun kept stooping—stooping—lo… The Hills to meet him rose! On his side, what Transaction! On their side, what Repose!
150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—
600 It troubled me as once I was— For I was once a Child— Concluding how an Atom—fell— And yet the Heavens—held—
867 Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place— Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace—
XXIII A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw.
275 Doubt Me! My Dim Companion! Why, God, would be content With but a fraction of the Life— Poured thee, without a stint—
The sky is low, the clouds are mea… A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go. A narrow wind complains all day